Off Duty Education
by Mikaela II
Summary: Short series about a young womans encounter with a strange creature in a dark alleyway in NYC. Rated for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

Off Duty Education

Disclaimer: I don't own the TMNT, just the story idea. Not sure where it's going to end up, but that's half of the fun! R&R are appreciated, and thanks to those who read and reviewed my other story, 'The Wizard of ooze'!

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All was quiet in the 12th Marine Corps District Headquarters, motion sensing lights flickering out one by one, the occupants long gone home to their wives, kids, girlfriends, booze- whatever it is people did after hours here. 

Except me.

I was too wrapped up in finishing a collage of the latest ceremony the command went through to notice, or care, what hour it was until at long last, I was satisfied with what I saw on my tablet screen. Frowning in concentration, I made a few adjustments to the color balance of the Commanding Officer's image- his fifty minute speech that had me falling asleep in my boots, lordy that man could talk. Only he was the worst kind of speaker, the monotonous kind that droned on and on and on in the same tone of voice until you either wanted to scream from frustration, or throw a chair. It's been done, believe me. You'd think with the kind of money our government spends on making Marines and Marine officer's, they'd get some kind of speech class, so when they tried giving us pep talks we'd feel like shooting the enemy, rather than ourselves.

"I guess that works, not like he'll get any prettier," I grumbled, saving the Photoshop document and shutting the program down. A quick check on my Outlook account revealed nothing of interest, and I shut that down as well, before turning my screen off and straightening my desk up. Pushing my chair in, I threw my blouse back on (Having gone 'boots and utes') and headed down toward the Enlisted Female locker room, flicking the light switch off on my way out.

Stripping down to my skivvies, I rolled up my cammies, shoved them on a shelf, put my boot bands inside their respective boots, tossed my dirty socks in a plastic bag and headed to the shower room, shower shoes (flip flops for you civilians) slap-slapping gently on the tiled floor. I pulled the plain blue curtain back and rotated the shower handle all the way into the red.

Steam billowed as I shucked my skivvies, shower shoes still on, and stepped into the welcoming steam billowing from the closet sized space. Cold weather or not, I always liked showering before I went home. I didn't like going home with my hair still gelled up in a typical Marine Female bun. I've noticed that announcing, discretely or not, that you were in the military often invited more annoyance than peace. I quickly washed the ton or so of gel out with two shampoos and let my conditioner sit for a while, replenishing the damaged strands while I leaned against the wall, enveloped in warmth. Sighing loudly, I rinsed, shut the steam off and hurried back out into the locker area, wrapping my fluffy towel around me tighter as I shivered.

Donning my 'civvies', a term us military types use when referring to regular clothes, I strapped on my shoulder holster (I learned a few things since I've been in), checked the safety on my CZ 95B double-action .45, and inspected my spare mags- a ritual I go through before I leave work, or leave home, because bad times made for good lessons learned, and I made it a point after those bad times to carry at least one form of protection on me at all times. Call me a nut or paranoid, but when push comes to shove, I'd rather be ready than dead (or worse). New York City isn't the safest city known to man, and the police have a bad habit of showing up too little too late for my taste. Besides, in my family, if you don't have your own gun, something ain't right upstairs. Least that's what my grandfather said when he bought me mine.

Let me back track a little. I've only recently moved to the area, having chosen an Independent Duty after serving six years in the Corps, three of which overseas in harms way, the other three in Garrison, and am not a New Yorker of origin. I love my job though, and if New York is where they need me, New York is where I go.

Anyway, I geared up to go home, and go home I did, securing my locker and slipping out the side door to make tracks to the subway station nearby that would take me to my small, but homey apartment.

'Damn, was it really this cold earlier?' my body complained, and I told it to shut up and put up until we got home, stepping my pace up a little to get my blood flowing good and strong.

A short sub ride later, I was on the street that took me home when the skies opened and the heavens poured down.

"Aw, just great" I cried, ducking under a shop awning, irritatingly conscious of my thin jacket, the declining temperature, and the mile I had left to walk. "Go frickin figure this would happen." I said sullenly, glaring skyward. "Perfect way to end a perfect frickin day."

Gritting my teeth, I resolved to sprint that mile, fully knowing that either way I was going to wind up drenched, and probably chilled to the bone. Damn, but this did bite.

I gathered my mettle and shot out from under the canopy, legs pumping in a furious attempt to outrun the fat, densely falling raindrops. Thunder crashed overhead as, panting, I slowed to a trot before resigning to my fate, bundling my jacket tighter around me and trudged onward, destination not even in sight due to the deluge.

A noise caught my attention. Swiveling my head, I saw several shadows lurking about fifteen feet from the mouth of the alleyway I was currently crossing in front of. Pausing, I saw the flash of metal as a chain whipped overhead. A cry of pain caused me to jerk back the way I came, and peer around, taking full account of what was happening.

Two punks were beating at a lumpish looking man in a trench, who was putting up a good fight, but slowly losing. Lightning flickered, and I saw the blood oozing down his front in a red waterfall, presumably from a superficial head wound. The punks were young, and must have caught the victim off guard. My blood boiled.

If there was one thing I hated at all in this world, was bullies. Kind of ironic, given the country I lived in and served, but nonetheless, a person was being hurt, and I wanted to do something about it.

'Don't be a hero,' Rationality shrilled through my brain. Reason and Common Sense agreed.

'Bugger that,' I thought, slipping my pistol out of it's holster, heart thumping from adrenaline. 'This is a BAD IDEA!' Reason shouted again, but was beaten down by Courage and Compassion.

Holding it out with arms slightly relaxed at the elbows, I crept up on the scene, using a stealthy type of walk I'd learned in special training sessions, when they were teaching us how to clear buildings in a city during a firefight. I knew I was rusty, but my dark clothes and jeans, the shadows and the pouring rain helped a lot, masking myself and my careful footsteps.

It also helped that these guys were busy whaling on the poor man, who slumped to ground. The bigger thug raised a length of pipe above his head, preparing to strike.

"FREEZE!" I shouted with as much force as my voice could muster. Given that I spent three years on the drill field, screaming at recruits to 'go faster', that wasn't as hard as I thought. "DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

The two's attention diverted from their hapless victim to me, I took a step forward, gun trained on the closest attacker. "I said, DROP your WEAPONS! NOW!"

The farther edged closer to me, their previous target forgotten and bleeding on the ground, as the closer allowed a malicious grin to cross his face. I took my aim from his head to a knee, cocking my eyebrow- appearing much cooler on the outside than the inside. Inside, I was a mess.

'Dammit, why did I think they wouldn't just take off when I showed myself!' one third of me gibbered, while another third was clamoring for them to 'bring it on', and the last third was reminding the first that Marines don't gibber in fear, especially not in front of the enemy. The closer inched forward, his length of chain trailing behind his arm. I saw the glimmer of thought cross his mind and raised my weapon to chest level. "Come closer and I take out a lung." I growled with more conviction than I felt. 'Please God, please don't make him force my hand,' I begged. 'I don't want to have to shoot him, no matter how bad he is.'

Not so. The second had managed to maneuver himself to where he could throw his pipe. He did, I dodged, and the closer charged me, whirling his chain like a deadly flail. Training took over as my sights lined up with the chain-swinger's left thigh. A shot cracked through the alley, and he fell, bleeding and howling. His buddy paused as he cried and moaned from the alley floor, clutching at the vicious gouge my slug carved into the outer meaty portion. That one down, I sidestepped away from him, training my sights on the remaining punk.

I stared coldly down the sight, the killer instinct loose in my body. "This next one won't miss" I was lying about missing the first shot, but his eyes widened in shock and fear anyway. He backpedaled slowly, glancing at his buddy once, before fleeing down the alley toward the chain link fence. Lightning again illuminated the scene, and I brought the barrel around to the punk that was grounded. He spat curses at me, the least of which had something to do with my mother. I stepped towards him, a flash movement that cut him off in mid-streak.

"You've got ten seconds before I put a hole in your chest big enough to drive a Mack through, punk," I growled, cocking the hammer back on the pistol and aiming for the heart. An unnecessary movement, but my point got across. "MOVE!" I shouted, lunging towards him. He shouted in fear, dragging himself upright to run-slash-limp down the alley to the fence his buddy leaped earlier. Once he was over, and I was satisfied that nothing else lurked in the alley, I holstered my gun and ran over to the unmoving lump on the ground, rain plastering my hair to my face and neck. I rolled him over, as a bolt of lightning pierced the sky.

I gasped at what I saw, the sound quickly covered by the deafening peal of thunder following the strike.

A jagged wound cut an angry line across the man's forehead, almost to the temple, blood running in rivulets down broad cheeks to a sinewy neck, gathering in the hollow of the collarbone. I snatched my cell phone out of my bag, and was punching in 911 when a hand arrested further movement.

I shrieked, the fear I'd suppressed finally breaking through the mental barriers I'd erected, shooting through my veins as fast as the adrenaline had earlier. Falling back on my rear, gasping as the creature rolled over, pushing weakly at the concrete in a feeble, but real attempt to rise. Instinct shoved fear aside and I rocked forward on my knees, grabbing it's arms to stop it from hurting itself more.

"Don't," I heard myself order. "You're injured, don't try to move because you'll only make it worse." I hooked my arms under it shoulders and heaved, succeeding in bringing it to it's knees. I knelt on it's right, the seemingly non-injured side, and looped its arm over my shoulders. "Ready?" I asked, hoping it could understand what I was trying to do. I felt, rather than saw, it nod. "Okay, one... two... three!" I said, grunting at the effort of lifting this thing. It was definitely a lot heavier than it had first looked.

When we were finally in a stable, upright position, I looked around in dismay. There was no way I could get this guy to the nearest hospital with no car, and from the looks of it, the only hospital he'd wind up in would be one with doctors none of us would ever want to see. Something caught my hearing, which had grown a lot dimmer over the course of my time in service. I strained my hearing to it's limits, trying to comprehend the barely audible murmur.

"P...please..." I heard it whisper, voice low, rough and raw.

"What?" I asked concernedly, as we took a wobbling step forward towards the alley exit.

"N-no... hospital..." I heard, a tremor that shook the creature wrenching at my heartstrings. I choked back tears of empathy as it's pitiful voice pleaded. "Please... please..." My heart went out to the poor beleaguered thing. Dammit to hell, why hadn't I jumped in sooner?

"Okay, no hospitals," I soothed, squashing my self-deprecating thoughts as I urged it forward, the unrelenting rain washing over us. "Let's see if we can get you to my apartment, we'll go from there. You're seriously hurt," I intoned gravely, as we lurched forward, my back straining from the effort of carrying the brunt of its weight. "I don't know how much I can do for you when we arrive, but we won't know until we get there."

I took a long moment to check my surroundings when we reached the alley mouth, after what felt like an eternity, and determining the streets clear, the citizens preferring their dry indoors, I wrapped my arm around the creatures broad waist again, eager to get us home safely.

_'What are you?'_ I wondered, stealing a quick glance at the head that rested on the shoulder of the arm thrown across mine, raindrops pattering on its bare skin in discordant rhythm.

_'Where did you come from?'_

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A/N: Just an FYI for anyone who's confused, a 'blouse' is the jacket part of the digital camouflage uniform that Service members wear; the breast pockets have their last name and branch of service, and their rank is pinned to the collar. 'Boots and Utes' is when a service member is wearing just the skivvie shirt, trousers, and boots. It's usually worn when performing labor of sorts, like cleanup or physical training, or setting up camp.

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to those who've read and appreciated this story thus far.

Disclaimer- I own a stuffed Raph I got off fleaBay... does that count?

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Chapter Two:

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"Goddamnit shit bastard hell!" I raged through gritted teeth, incensed and fumbling with my keys, the stupid lock to my apartment door being as goddamned stubborn as a loaded mule. I entertained thoughts of kicking the door in for a moment, like I'd had to do several times when I lived in the barracks in Japan, then ruled it out when Reason poked me saying, 'The Landlord won't like this, and it'll cost you unnecessary dough.' 

Taking a calming breath, attentive to the heavy breathing wracking my injured charge's body, I jiggled the handle. With a 'pop' and a 'snick', the lock tumbled, and I shoved the door open, flicked on the lights, ready and anxious to haul this thing to my living room. I paused at the linen closet, wrangled a few towels out and half-dragged it to the couch, threw the towels down on it to cover the cushions, and wrestled him into a lying position. He was half conscious, which made it all the harder.

"A..April..." It rasped, eyes slowly shuttering closed as unconciousness settled in, while I fanangled the frustratingly bulky trench coat off. I paused, unable to respond. Before they shut completely, I saw pain riddling those tawny brown eyes. Beneath that, though, I thought I saw something else, an emotion like sorrow, possibly even shame. I tut-tutted, patting it's arm reassuringly before pattering off to the laundry room to toss the trench in the washer, hurrying back lest it roll and fall off the couch if I stayed away too long.

Blessedly, it had blacked out but hadn't rolled off and caused complications. I reached out, tentatively at first, because I was nervous about it for damn sure, and took it's pulse. Shockingly, it had skin that leaned towards forest green in the light of my small table lamp, and hunter in the shadows. It had the look, but definitely not the feel, of lambskin leather, small spots sprinkling up and down its arms, legs, and face- almost like my freckles did me. Sixty seconds passed and satisfied that the pulse was within normal, okay, human range, I went to my kitchen pantry and fished out the first aid kit I'd compiled for any kind of kitchen hazard, deep cuts included. You never knew when your klutzy (and slightly crazy) little sister was going to try and slice turkey and accidentally fillet her arm. Again.

Setting out the supplies I needed, I gave the creature a quick once over. Determining the ragged, seven inch head wound was the gravest and needed to be seen to first, I set the flame level on my lighter to hotter than hot and sterilized a hooked needle and cuticle scissors. Setting those aside, I grabbed a large gauze pad, soaking it in iodine solution before pressing it firmly to the trickling gouge. The creature hissed, and I paused, startled. I waited for a few moments, gently cleaning out the dirt, but apparently it was still out, so I set about my nauseating task. I hated doing stitches, but was thankful for the training I'd received from our 'Doc's' in the field. Before that, I'd been taught some of the lifesaving techniques, but nothing intricate, like surgery and setting bones.

The wound rinsed in solution and wiped clean, I threaded the needle with fresh 'catgut', knotted the end, and pinched the farthest edge of the wound's skin together. Gritting my teeth, I pushed the needle through, pulling the skin tightly together.

Quickly as I could, I sewed it shut, rinsed the wound again, this time in an alcohol solution to kill any germs I may have transferred during the gloveless surgery, and cut the thread, sighing in relief. That was the hardest part, made easy with the creature out. I ran to the kitchen to wash my hands before I did anything else.

Hands clean again, I set about rinsing out and dressing the melange of superficial cuts and abrasions this poor thing had suffered during it's mugging, much more relieved knowing that at least it wouldn't bleed to death on my couch. Still, better to take no chances, so I resolved to watch it through the night. It's wounds dressed and pressed, I went to my kitchen sink, washed my hands again, grabbed a washcloth and soaked it in cool water. Once cold, I wrung it out, and laid in on the creature's forehead before taking some well deserved 'me' time. Looking down at my wet clothes clinging to me, and the massive wet spot on the floor where I'd sat working on the beast, I gave a wry chuckle. Double-damn, more work to do before bed- fuck it, that can wait till morning.

'Modesty be damned, I gotta get warm and dry before I catch cold!' Stripping on the tile of the foyer, I slung the clothes into the wash with the trench coat and set it on a hot cycle, hoping the blood on them would come out easy. I streaked through the living room, hit the shower at full tilt, cried out as the blast hit my skin painfully, with what felt like boiling, rather than tepid, water. I growled a nasty streak of curses as my hypothermic skin crawled with fire-hot pins and needles, slowly growing more accustomed to the temperature as increasingly foul words ground past my lips.

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A half hour later, warmed and clean, I wrapped myself in my big, fluffy, very overpriced cotton terry robe from last Christmas, wrapped my hair up in another towel and peered out into the den, checking in on my charge before crossing over the threshold into my bedroom seeking out my flannel pj's and a few blankets. I dumped the blankets down on the floor next to the couch, and changed. Digging through my closet produced a down quilt, which I brought into the den to keep it warm through the night. It was, after all, reptilian from first glance, and from feeling its blood between my fingers, either suffering from hypothermia or simply cold blooded. 

Draping the quilt across it, I settled down in my lazy boy recliner, pulled the blankets over me, and popped the foot rest up. For a long while I watched it, my eyes tracing it's contours under the quilt, mind finally slowing down to really see it for what felt like the first time since we'd crossed paths.

It was a turtle, from what I'd seen. It had the customary shell, of course, scratched and nicked from God knows who and what, and deep green skin that seemed to change color in the light. But it was also so human, in the fact that it was bipedal; it had two legs, and two arms just like me- it's skeletal layout probably just like mine too, but denser. That much I could tell just from carrying half it's weight for nearly a mile, and up four flights of stairs. It's head was tilted down at it's chest, offering me a quarter view of it's face, the features standing out in sharp relief from the lamplight.

It had large cheeks and a broad mouth under what I took to be a beak with two barely perceptible nostrils under the prow, and large, heavy lidded eyes. I'd removed the cloth mask it'd been wearing before I got to work on the stitches, hardly paying it any notice until now, as it dried over my radiator. Red, a color that suited and wouldn't stain something awful. I thought more about the torn up shell, and guessed that there was a very real reason it'd chosen that color. I didn't understand it, though, why wear a mask if you obviously don't look human as it is? What are you trying to hide? I pondered these thoughts for a little while, listening to the soft whuffling breaths, watching the slow rise and fall of it's chest under the blanket for any sign of distress.

_Plastron',_ I thought, abruptly remembering biology lessons from years past.

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I woke with a start, a rustling sound jerking me out of the dreamless sleep I'd fallen in during my self-induced stint as a night watch. Flinging the blanket that I'd pulled up over my head away, I glanced blearily at the clock on the wall, annoyed at what I saw. 'Zero-seven thirty. I've been asleep for six hours! Some watch you are, old girl.' Another rustle quelled my growing irritation, as the creature rolled over in slumber, mumbling incoherently. I could make out 'Splinter' and 'Fearless-one'. 'Mike' was another common utterance, and I giggled quietly, watching it twitch like a puppy chasing cars in it's dreams. Yawning hugely, I decided that I'd take it easy today, since Saturdays were usually lazy days. Sundays were reserved solely for distance running through the city- as that was my way of communing with God and nature, plus the city was less noisy and dangerous on those early mornings- and an afternoon of reading at my local Starbucks. 

Mm... Starbucks. 'I could sure go for a coffee right about now'. My stomach rumbled its assent as well, and I stifled the urge to laugh long and loud. I returned the lazy boy to its upright and locked position, rose, gathered my blankets and threw them on the king bed in my room, and padded to the kitchen to rummage through my pantry for breakfast.

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Not long had passed before I had bacon sizzling in my industrial sized microwave as I poured the last of the freshly mixed pancake batter into a hot, buttered pan, inhaling the rich aromas wafting about. My stomach growled louder this time. "Not much longer, hang on," I said, patting my empty, frustrated belly. I smiled as the microwaved dinged that the bacon was done, neatly flipped a cake over, set the pan down to go pull the plate out. Unrolling a few paper towels, I speared the slices with a fork and lifted them from the grease laden plate over to the clean towels on another. Bacon accounted for, I slid the final cake out of the pan onto a waiting stack, and set it aside. 

Digging through my kitchen drawers produced two forks and knives, which sandwiched the small plates on the four person round table in my dining room (really just a part of the kitchen, but I like to pretend I actually have one), as did the plate of cakes and bacon. Eggs were next, since they were quicker and easier. I mixed four eggs, cheese, garlic, and pepper in the same pan I'd cooked the pancakes in, until well scrambled, and dumped the pans contents into a large bowl. That also went on the table, along with maple syrup (from Canada), butter, whole wheat toast, and two coffee cups. The coffee wasn't done yet, so I went to check up on my guest (Guest, hah!), and found it sideways on the couch, eyes open and clear, staring me down.

I put my hands up in a calming gesture so not to startle, frighten, irritate, aggravate, ANYTHING-ate the beast in my living room, and spoke slowly. "I have breakfast, pancakes with bacon and eggs, if you're hungry." I emphasized the last by patting my stomach, and pointed to the kitchen.

The large brown eyes clouded over with what I thought was annoyance, then amusement rippled over. The creature nodded, and rose to a sitting position, wincing a little at the movement. I rushed over.

"Careful now," I fussed, taking hold of one arm to help it up. It jerked away from my touch, slowly- defiantly- rising on it's own, staring me down the whole time.

"Well, fine," I huffed, stepping back a pace, arms reflexively crossing over my chest- something I did when I was miffed. It took a step forward on unsteady legs, almost spilling over in the process. I snorted, and took hold the arm again, with a firmer grip this time, and, despite the smoldering glare I received, guided it around my coffee table to the kitchen. "Hey, humor me. I stopped the fight, patched you up, and hey," I said, tossing it a sideways glance and a smile, "I'm even throwing in a free breakfast. So humor me, and stop being a baby about getting helped around."

It raised an eyebrow at me, before looking back at the inviting table. Nodding once, I took that as an invitation to take it to it's seat. It even looked affronted when I asked, "Can you even eat this stuff?" and nodded so rapidly, I worried for a second that it would loosen the stitches! All right, all right. Here," I said, piling three pancakes, five strips of bacon, and a mound of fluffy, cheesy eggs onto it's place. "Eat up, you need to get your strength back so you can go home." I watched, fascinated, as it grasped the fork and knife with easy grace, and took a few careful bites of the pancakes, eyes going half-mast as it ate. I chuckled a little, filling my own plate up, and pouring coffee. "Want some?"

The face it made was so amusing, I couldn't help but burst out laughing. "Okay, okay, no coffee. Water?" It shook it's head, looking at me pointedly, like there was something I was missing. I stared back, perplexed. "All I have left is some Earl Grey, want that?" it nodded assent, and I set about fixing it some tea, while it snarfed down the remaining food on its plate. Tea ready, I set it down with some lemon juice and sugar cubes, and giggled at the mournful way it was regaling my plate.

"I can always make more for you, you know." I said around a mouthful of bacon. "Just let me finish mine first, kay?"

It nodded again, eager for me to finish 'quick quick and in a hurry'. I declined, chewing slowly, watching it as it watched me eat, regarded my kitchen, my living room. Just looking at everything with the bored curiosity of someone waiting for something else to come along. It's gaze rested back on my own as I finished my meal, the two of us just sitting there- one human, and a giant turtle-man sharing a quiet breakfast above the noisy Saturday morning streets of NYC.

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Author's Note: Woof. Chapter two done, on to chapter three. I promise I'll update TwoO as well later this week, promise! Mikaela 


	3. Chapter 3

O.D.E.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did.

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Chapter 3

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"Why aren't you afraid of me?!" It shouted, slamming a three fingered hand on my table, startling me as I poured batter into the greased pan, causing me to burn my fingers in the process. I cursed loudly, running cool tap water over the angry red digits. Once the pain dulled, I went back to my previous activity, scraping the pancake off the pan to flip it over, the cooked side golden brown and sizzling hot. 

"Why should I be?" I countered, curiosity piqued by the question. It stared, astonishment giving way to distrust and anger. I looked back at it, waiting for an explanation, my gaze even as the smell of fluffy goodness filled the kitchen again. When none came, I returned my attention to finishing up round two of the all-American breakfast. Done, and done. Setting the replenished plates down one for him and another, less full one, for me I sat and poured a fresh cup of Joe, adding light cream and sugar.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you, poison you, whatever you might be thinking, you goof, so you might as well eat what you asked for." I said, smiling around my mug as it poked at the eggs on it's plate. It glared at me once more, and took a cautious bite. I rolled my eyes, took a cautious sip of my hot coffee and ate a pancake. Hunger abated, I watched the pile of food on my companions plate vanish.

"Why should I be afraid?" I asked again. Another distrustful glance told me talking was a long way from happening with this guy. "You were a person in need, you didn't try to hurt me," I ticked these off on my non-burned fingers, "And you trusted me to help you, even though you obviously look like trust isn't something you dole out regularly." A nod encouraged me to continue. "From what I can tell, you don't interact with human much, and from last night, not the best of us when you do." I tapped a finger on the table top, drawing it's guarded gaze to my own. "We're not all horrible," I said gently. "Some of us have seen enough bizarre, hurtful, awful things to be able to look past what's outside. Take me, for example," I said, placing a hand on my chest. "I grew up in a loving family, one that traveled a lot. I went places and saw things most people my age back then never saw in a lifetime. I did the most unusual thing in my lineage and joined the Marines right out of High School, and was almost immediately sent to war, in a country that violently rejects our way of life, with dire consequences to those who chose to follow us." I didn't notice as my gaze fell to the steaming mug, lost in my speech. "I saw boys, men, children, women even, killed in senseless acts of violence. I helped perform lifesaving maneuvers to fellow Marines, Sailors, and Soldiers who'd lost their limbs, or been riddled with shrapnel in an explosion during a raid. I've documented scenes of death, life, love, hope, and sorrow. I've killed people as well, trapped in situations that left me no choice." I released a deep sigh, one borne of pain and loss, raising my eyes to meet its less angry ones. "I've seen enough to not care what someone looks like, but to care what's inside the shell, no pun intended."

"That's why," I concluded, smiling gently over the table, "I don't give a damn what you look like. Your blood runs the same red as mine. Now finish eating!" I scolded, tucking into the remains of my bacon.

It gave me a long, measured look before complying with zest.

* * *

"How old are you?" I asked as I changed the bandages on his arms and legs. 

"Seventeen." It said, watching me as a hawk would during the process of re-cleaning, anointing, and re-bandaging the large abrasions on his left leg. From the tone of voice and inflection, I gathered 'it' was in fact a 'him', and had spent a long time here in NYC. Very Bronx-ish, maybe Brooklyn-ese.

"Lived here long, dude?" he nodded yes, confirming my assumptions, even chuckling a little at the last. "What?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. He shook his head, still chuckling.

"Mikey says that a lot. Dude," He explained, gesticulating. I smiled, as I finished up his legs and swabbed a cut on his forearm with alcohol. He hissed, "Stings."

"I know, but hold still, it'll be over soon. Who's Mikey?" I asked, dabbing ointment on the cut. He clamped his mouth shut, like he'd felt he said too much or something. I rolled my eyes again. "Dude, if I was out to get you and anyone else like you, I'd have you in an interrogation cell, or something equally as bad. Not," I said, emphasizing by placing a red band-aid on the cut, "Patching you up and feeding you." He shrugged, smiling at my color choice.

"Mike's my baby brother." He rolled_his_ eyes this time. "Definitely the baby of the family, always cracking jokes, playing pranks, being silly." He grew thoughtful. "Not stupid, but definitely a wiseass."

I laughed. "Sound's like my brother. He's two years younger than me and in college. He's the family joker," I said by way of explanation. I stood up, and surveyed my handiwork, hands on hips. Satisfied, I gathered up my supplies and put them back in their respective slots in the kit.

"So now for the $64,000 question," I said, closing the kit. "What's your name?"

A long, pregnant silence passed as he stretched what had to be sore limbs, looking at me, considering.

"My name's Raphael."

I smiled, familiar with the name. "Like the painter. An old Renaissance master. I learned about them in high school art classes," I explained seeing his eyes sharpen, "Duh."

He relaxed a little, more than he had since he woke up this morning, leaning back on my towel strewn couch. He eyeballed them, obviously wondering why I had towels on my couch, and why they were spotted red. "You were bleeding a lot," I said, waving at them offhandedly. "I set them down before I put you there in case you accidentally opened wounds back up last night and bled worse."

"Ah," He pronounced, feeling the ridge of stitched tissue snaking across his forehead. He traced it down to the temple, heaving a deep sigh as he did so.

I frowned as he touched my neat stitches. "Hey, I did the best I could considering, you know."

"It's not that," He muttered, glancing out the window. His three fingered hand went back to it's original position of resting on the brown leather belt at his waist. And patted. And patted again, frantically this time. "Shit!" He growled, looking down.

"What's wrong?" I was confused by these actions. Did he forget something, lose something?

"Leo'll never let me live this down." He groaned, head falling forward into his hands.

"Who's Leo?" This was getting confusing with each passing second.

"Never mind," He grumbled, making as if to rise. Stepping forward, I gently, but firmly, pushed him back. He glared at me, outrage flickering in his eyes, as if upset that I dared touch him, push him around. I matched the glare.

"You're not going anywhere until you heal, got that mister?" I snapped. "Now what's eating you this time?"

He shoved his way to his feet, wavered and fell over. Lunging forward, I managed to catch him before he hit the ground, biting back a stream of curses. "See? You're not fit to go running around, much less in daylight, Raphael."

He, reluctantly albeit, allowed me to settle him back down on the couch, muttering all the while. I sat on the coffee table, facing him, elbows resting on my knees. "What's so important that you need to go?"

"My sais." He ground out. I blinked.

"Your what?"

"Sais, my weapons!" he shouted, waving an arm for emphasis.

"Hm." I mused, thinking. "They're probably still in the alley, if that's where you had them last. I'll go look, if you promise to stay here until I get back." I stressed 'stay here' because I was pretty sure he'd try to run off while I spent however long it took combing through the alley for something weapon-like.

He nodded dully.

"Pinky promise?" He gave me an amused look.

"I swear on my sacred ninja honor that I will not leave the apartment until you get back."

"Ninja honor?" I blinked, deciding that I didn't want to know. "Okay, that works, I guess. What do these sais look like?"

He gave me a brief description of a three pronged pointy knife-like thing with handles, and I went to my room to dress. Pulling my hair back and securing it in a ponytail, I gave him a last warning.

"If I come back and you're not here, I'll melt these sai thingys down into a puddle of slag, you hear?"

He rolled his eyes as I opened my door slightly, peeking out into the hallway before stepping out, turning and locking the door. I cruised down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door to the streets, which were fairly empty for the mid-morning hour wondering all the while what I was going to do with him when I got back. I certainly couldn't keep him, he obviously had a family, who were probably worried sick for him. Still, he was hurt and I didn't want him going out half healed and get attacked again. Next time someone might not have the guts to step in, and if they did, the fortitude to stick around and give aid. 'Or worse,' I thought darkly, watching the people as they passed me by, 'They help him and then sell him to the science department.'

Sigh. Oh well, time to look for these things he's flustered over.

* * *

I'd spent about an hour going over that cursed alley, before I finally found the damn things underneath a dumpster. It took some effort, but I managed to roll it a little ways and snatch them up before some curious onlooker began wondering what a young woman was doing fishing around here. 

Weapons secure in my belt, underneath a long jacket, I sauntered back to the apartment, stopping briefly at a street vendor to buy a few apples and a big bottle of water for the pantry.

Stepping it up, I ran up the stairs, clearing them two at a time, tumbled the lock and stepped into the apartment.

"Raphael!" I called, dropping the bag of apples on the counter, carrying the water into the den with me. My eyes narrowed as I surveyed the empty couch, and my blood started to burn as I wandered through the apartment looking for him, wondering how an oversized turtle-man with three bulky fingers on each hand could slip out of an apartment so cleanly, what with a door that jammed when it was locked. I walked into my bedroom and sighed.

"That's where you were." I said relieved, watching as he poked around at a chest of drawers in a corner beneath a window. "I found them, by the way." Setting them on my dresser, I went over to where he stood.

"Nice collection." He said, running a finger over the haft of a samurai short sword I'd picked up in Oki.

"My family is weird," I said, shrugging. "My dad loved it so much when I joined the Marines that he's bought me a knife of some sort every Christmas and birthday, and sometimes just cause." I pointed at a wicked black blade with a serrated edge. "He got me that Ka-bar as a present for graduating Boot Camp. The others are knives from various countries he's been to. I bought that one," I said, indicating the sword he'd been admiring, "From a sword maker in Okinawa, Japan while I was stationed there. It's not a great sword, one of the way lesser quality ones because I couldn't afford anything more than that."

He touched it again, a small smile playing across his features. "My brother, Leo, would like to see this. He has two swords of his own."

"Nifty." There didn't seem to be anything else to say. "Hey, I set your sai things on my dresser." I glanced at the clock, his eyes following my gaze. "I've got to go run a few errands right now." I looked him square in the eyes. "I'd feel better if you stayed and rested, but I can't keep you here. If you do stay, make yourself comfortable and rest up- if not, be careful. Your coat is hanging up in the laundry room." I watched mixed emotions play on is features before I turned and left the room, embarrassingly aware of the clothes strewn about.

I gathered my wallet, cell phone, chap stick, and other implements, threw them in my small purse and stood for a minute in the living room as he seated himself on the couch. "I left my cell phone number on the whiteboard in the foyer. If you need anything, call, okay?" I opened my apartment door, glancing back Raphael. "See you later."

I walked down the hall, a sinking feeling in my stomach telling me he wouldn't be there when I got back.

* * *

End chapter 3. 

A/N: Thanks again for the review Chibi! R&R appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

ODE

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did though. All I own is the storyline, and OC's.

* * *

It had been about a week since I'd returned from helping my elderly neighbor manage her little convenience store, buying groceries, and gathering my uniform items from the cleaners. I'd returned to find my apartment empty, a small note left in the window as the sinking notion I'd felt proved true. 

'For your collection', it had read, in small, neat lettering that greatly reflected the writer's personality. All capitals, slanted heavily to the right indicated confidence and strength, but also pent up frustration. I'd almost missed it too, except it had been weighted with a small token of appreciation, to keep it from fluttering away in the draft the cracked window allowed in. I smiled, gazing fondly at what he'd left for me- a small, beautifully crafted throwing star.

"So that's what he meant by ninja," I'd murmured, turning it about so light glinted fiercely off it's sharp contours, the edges telling me that it meant business.

I found a scrap of black velvet, and sewed a small pouch for it to rest in, and nestled it among the other dangerous goods I kept on display.

* * *

A week later found me trudging up the stairs to my apartment, dress uniform folded neatly in a garment bag that was slung over one tired shoulder. It was the night of the Marine Corps' Birthday, and my unit had held a fabulous ball at the swanky Hilton Astoria. I'd been tasked to document the ceremony, something I took great pleasure from. I always found myself standing just a little straighter, chin a little higher when our Hymn played, hovering on the ledge of explosive pride in my service, and the brethren, both living and fallen, that kept us going year after year. 

Laying my garment bag down on the couch, I took a quick shower to wash that abominal amount of gel out, dried off and threw on cords, a sweater set, and a beanie plus a jacket. I went to my kitchen to gather the necessary supplies for tonight's little ceremony, something I started with my barracks buddies a long time ago. Placing them gently into a smallish backpack, I shouldered that as well as my portable chair, and exited the apartment.

I climbed the stairs (because I called anyone that used the elevator a sissy) to the tenth floor, and opened the roof exit hatch, climbing out to a spectacular sweep of stars, something rarely seen through the usual smog and smoke of this dreadful city.

Opening the chair up, I set it aside. Reaching into my bag, I produced a mug, a small bottle of Jack Daniels, and a small bottle of Diet Coke. I poured a finger's width of Jack in the mug, drowning it in Coke afterwards. The mug wasn't just any mug, it was cut crystal with my old unit's emblem in pewter attached, and the years my service had been in existence scrolled on the pewter handle. This I set down, reaching yet again into my bag, bringing out a warm blanket and my cell phone.

Settling back into my chair, wrapped in soft flannel, holding my beverage of choice in one hand, I texted 'Happy Birthday!' to all the Marines in my contacts list, regardless of rank. Task completed, I breathed a silent prayer, sat back to watch the stars and raised my mug in a silent toast to those who'd given all in the fight for our country, and to those who were still giving.

I drained my drink to the dregs, then filled my mug again, content to sit on the roof a little while longer and wait for the replies that I knew were coming.

The first came almost immediately from my best friend, who was stationed in South Carolina at the Depot, followed soon after by my other best friend who was, ironically, in Okinawa- thirteen hours ahead. I replied with a 'shouldn't you be in bed?', laughing softly.

That's when the attack came. I was in the midst of replying to her even funnier comeback when I felt the air shift slightly. Ducking forward, text message forgotten, I whirled to find myself facing shadows that moved, breathed, and crept forward in the catlike warrior stance I'd learned in my mixed martial arts classes. I cursed my luck, realizing that I was armed only with a small switchblade in my back pocket. Reaching slowly behind, I just managed to fling it open when the first shadow charged me, a short stick in his hands. Flipping the blade to where the blunt edge of the blade rested against my wrist, I blocked the downswing with one arm, crying out in pain from the strike, before lashing back with my own.

I'm fast, but these guys were even faster, the one I faced dodging like lightning! 'Hah!' I exulted, seeing fabric tear and a thin line of red show through the rent. 'Not fast enough', I thought darkly. Nevertheless, I knew when I was outgunned and wished I'd taken the time to properly arm myself, even if I was in my own complex!

"Shit!" I shouted, ducking another swing, and instantly cursed my foolishness. Instead of dodging away, I'd managed to dodge into the thick of them, and soon found myself lashing out at anything that came within arms and legs reach, hoping that I'd cause some kind of damage.

A familiar voice called out a challenge, throwing me off guard enough to cause me to take a club hard to the stomach. I gasped, mouth working like a fish as I fought to get air into burning lungs. My sight glazed over red, and I threw my knife, managing a lucky hit into the nearest one and scrambled backward as a familiar figure dashed across the rooftop toward my attackers.

"Raphael!" I sounded shocked. I was surprised that he'd come back, and even more so that he'd come to my rescue this time. The shadows paused, momentarily confused at his appearance and my shout, and Raphael leaped forward to engage the closest set. Taking advantage, I collapsed the chair and threw it as hard as I could into the thick of the rest, and ran to the one I'd wounded, relieving him of my knife and his nightstick, striking him at the temple to keep him out of the fight.

"Nice shot babe!" A newer, younger, voice called from a corner of the roof, it's orange-banded owner whirling a pair of weapons I'd only seen in kung-fu movies. Laughing, the turtle-man slapped one shadow silly, cracking jokes all the while. "I get such a kick," He emphasized by planting his foot into a shadow's face, "Out of this job!"

"Cliche, Mikey, just cliché." Another, this one purple masked, said as he used a staff to disarm and disable two shadows that were using similar weapons, but to a much lesser degree of mastery that this one showed. I paused, stunned, taking this all in.

A ringing CLANG startled me out of my frozen state, and I whirled, nightstick raised defensively as a fourth turtle-man cut down a shadow that had been creeping up behind me, so stealthily I'd never heard him coming.

"You know better than that, pick on somebody your own size!"

I blinked, as the blue masked one jumped away, twin swords glinting in the starlight as he pursued other enemies.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared in front of me, and before I could even raise my weapon, he swung his bo with deadly force into my chin.

My world exploded in a blinding flash of light.

* * *

"...she okay?" I heard a rough voice through a haze of pain. My head ached abominably, and I could feel other aches and pains on my body slowly make themselves known. I shuddered, regretting the movement as soon as it occurred, a wave of nausea sweeping through me. 

"I'm gonna throw up..." I whispered, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to keep the bile from rising. It failed, and I gagged, the gorge rising faster than I could control. I 'urked', desperate to contain the uke that was coming, and felt myself being bodily hauled somewhere, hopefully the bathroom.

I squinched my eyes open enough to see the bowl and hurled with such force that some of my stomach contents splashed up at me. I felt gratitude as hands gather my hair away from my face. Once I got to dry heaves, I saw a bunch of tissue wavering under my nose. Mumbling a 'thank you', I grabbed the tissue and wiped my face free of toilet bowl residue, feeling nasty and weak.

"Hurts." I croaked, screwing my eyes shut against the blinding white of my bathroom, and I was once again bodily picked up and carefully deposited on the couch.

"Here, drink this," A calm, gentle voice said, pressing a cup to my lips. I drank, and spluttered, the bitter mixture causing my already upset stomach to lurch and flip. "Drink," The voice said again, this time with a measure of force to it. "It tastes nasty, but this will help you sleep and recover."

I reluctantly swallowed. Moments later, I felt sleepy, and succumbed to the beckoning darkness.

* * *

Waking was almost as painful as before. I opened my eyes again, recognizing my apartment, and winced at the bright light. My head still hurt, but not as much as before; the light was marginally tolerable. Blinking, I rolled over from the back of the couch and came face to face with the purple banded turtle-man. 

"Good to see you awake!" He, judging from voice again, said warmly, delicately placing a warm washcloth on my forehead, and smiled- those large cheeks bunching from the effort. "You'll have a nasty goose-egg later, but thankfully no concussion."

"I got knocked out," I stated flatly, rather than asked, irritated at myself for not keeping my guard up, frustrated I'd only taken one knife, and angry that I'd been attacked by God-knows-who. Purple nodded sagely, holding out two aspirin and a glass of water. I swallowed both pills, gulped the water down and burped hugely, covering my mouth.

"Excuse me," I murmured, and Purple smiled. I sniffed something wonderful wafting out of the kitchen, and my stomach rumbled despite it's vomitous behavior before.

"Mike's in the kitchen making breakfast," Purple said, by way of explanation. I nodded, even though I didn't know who was who, and sloooowly rotated my head to the lazy boy chair. Raphael was perched there, a thundercloud crossing his features.

"Hey," I said, smiling weakly. "My turn on the couch, eh?"

"I s'pose so," he rumbled, anger fading as a small smile quirked the corner of his mouth. I laughed slightly at his expression. Purple looked confused.

"Donnie, she's the one that helped me," Raphael said, pointing to his scar. Don. Interesting name.

Don looked impressed, and said as much, commenting on how neatly the wound had healed, only leaving a thin, shiny scar in lieu of a lumpy rough mess of one.

"Yeah, we couldn't have Raph losing his good looks," A voice piped up from the kitchen. Mikey, I assumed, laughed and continued on with: "That's all he's really got going for him, what with his lovely wit and charm!"

I giggled as Raphael threw an angry look at my kitchen.

"Thank you, Miss," Another voice, low and even, said. I gingerly rotated my head toward the opposite end of the room, where the blue masked one stood. I could have mistaken him for stone if he'd not spoken, much less realize he was there.

"You're welcome, Leo." I said. His eyes narrowed slightly, probably from my pronouncing his name even though he'd not announced it. "Raphael mentioned your names while he was out like a light on this very couch," I said, explaining. Raphael glared first at me, then malevolently at Leonardo. Don sighed, sensing a storm on the horizon. I had a distinct feeling that saying that was a big mistake.

"Come and get it!" Mike's chipper voice called from the archway, a delicious aroma wafting out. The brewing storm dissipated a fraction as all the turtle-men's heads swiveled to him. He stepped into the light, wearing the frilly apron my aunt had given me one Christmas, and grinned broadly.

"Breakfast is ready, babe!"

* * *

A/N: Probably an awkward place to cut it off, but I thought it would suit the irony well. R&R appreciated, thank you Rein, your praise is always coveted. 

Mikaela


End file.
